Valhalla’s garden wasn’t like the rest of the divine realm. It breathed. Sunlight pooled golden between leaves from trees older than time. Wildflowers burst from stone, careless of where they rooted. Ancient fountains hummed soft melodies, and birds sang not for prayer, but for joy.

It was alive. And today, it was war. Fruit war.

A melon-splitting, rind-hurling, seed-spitting catastrophe.

“Incoming!” Göll screamed, diving behind a pillar as a watermelon chunk the size of her torso whistled through the air, pulverizing a row of flower pots.

“Watch your throws, Thrud!” Hrist snarled, ducking, spinning, returning fire with terrifying precision. “You nearly took my eye!”

So when the watermelon left Brunhilde’s fingers — a gentle arc, graceful, slow —and hit you square in the face—everything stopped.